


Light of a Clear Blue Mourning

by KConstantine (jhem211)



Category: One Life to Live
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhem211/pseuds/KConstantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started simply. As simply as such things do anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light of a Clear Blue Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> Like almost all of my stories, this title is borrowed from a song. This one is from Allison Moorer's version of "Light of a Clear Blue Morning."

I didn't want help, but the singular truth of my life is that no one had ever offered, so I learned to do without. It was always me against the world and I loved a fight more than anyone I knew. But then I met my match, and it wasn't the cancer that slowly ate its way through my body. It was her.

It started simply. As simply as such things do anyway. A simple caress. My hand to her face; her skin soft, warm, alive. We'd hated each other for years. At times it seemed as deep as a canyon, as etched in stone as an ancient hieroglyph. But there have always been moments in between. Pauses consisting of our equally destructive love of the same man, or the affirming love of our daughters. We were never friends, and always a sideways glance or a loose word away from eternal enemies.

I like to say it was my moment of weakness and her moment of strength that began this journey. She likes to say it's the other way around. We argue more than is necessary, and about ridiculous things. I think it's because we don't know any other way. I'd be lying if I said we were even remotely interested in trying to find one.

))-((

The first time she kissed me was the day the first strands of my hair fell out. It was late afternoon and I was in bed, the treatment's toll on my body evident in the dark circles under my eyes. My skin was pale and clammy, but I couldn't decide if I was hot or cold. Two months into my four month sentence, the thought of feeling any worse than I did at that moment terrified me.

Todd's trial ended that day. I thank God for that because I am sure I didn't have the strength to utter a single other word in his defense. I was drained, in every way imaginable, and as I had never before been in my life.

She convinced Daniella to spend time with her sister and father celebrating what we were confident would be a not guilty verdict. Of all of the things she did for me, of all the things she would come to do for me, I think I was most grateful for not having to see my daughter's face as she witnessed the beginning of my end.

It was a simple gesture, slipping my fingers through my hair. One done without thought. But as I pulled my fingers away, strands of hair filled my palm. I don't know how long I sat in silence staring at it. I don't know how long she sat on the bed staring at me. I only remember her fingers closing over mine, locking my hair between our palms. I remember her bringing our hands to her face. I remember her kissing my fingers with the barest of touches. I remember not realizing I was crying until she kissed a tear as it slid down my cheek.

She pulled away slowly, and stopped just far enough away to look me in the eyes.

"Whatever you need, I'm here for you," she said. "Whatever you need."

I couldn't speak. Her words obstructed the movement of thoughts that stumbled from my brain and brokenly landed on my tongue. For the first time in my life, words deserted me.

So I nodded. And she kissed me.

The first hesitant touch of her lips broke what was left of my determination to do this alone. It forced me to understand that alone had become a habit, and this would be my last chance to rewrite my history. So I kissed her back. I kissed her like she was the last person I would ever kiss on this Earth. I kissed her like her lips were the only things that could hold me together, like she was the only person who could be a witness to me falling apart.

))-((

When I had one month left, we moved into the Cramer mansion.

"You'll be more comfortable there," she said. She was feeding me soup that was more chicken broth than chicken noodle. My appetite completely disappeared at the same time as my last strand of hair.

"I'm comfortable here," I said. "And Dorian hates me."

"She doesn't hate you," she countered. "And there, I'll be able to take better care of you."

I didn't know how that would be possible. She already took better care of me than anyone ever had. I was no longer surprised by it, just thankful. Thankful in a way I truly never thought I was capable of when it came to her.

"Plus, I think it would be good for Dani to have some other people around," she said.

Daniela...

I tried to keep my illness from her for as long as possible. When she was around I faked strength I didn't have only to collapse in on myself the moment she left. I lied and lied until the lies made me sicker than the cancer and treatments combined. When I finally told her, it was at her demand, and not because I was ready. I would have never been ready.

"I'm dying," is what I said. There were no other words to protect her from my fate. Truth stood silent and absolute between us, unmoved by the tears of my teenage daughter or the breaking of my heart. There was no fight to be had, no better to be made.

"I can have everything moved by tonight," she said, bringing me back to the conversation. "Just say the word."

So I said the word. And she smiled like I hadn't seen in a long time. And in that smile, I knew I would say yes to anything she ever asked.

"Great, now don't think you're getting out of finishing this soup," she said, another spoonful already halfway to my mouth.

I actually did think exactly that, but I should have known better, so I let her feed me until there wasn't a single drop left.

))-((

She stopped sleeping in her bedroom. She would always make a big deal about turning in for the night, but she'd be back in my room before a single hour passed.

We talked about everything. Nothing was off limits. We became best friends under the imminence of my death. It was twisted and made the kind of sense that was perfect for us.

In the beginning it was always quiet. She'd slip beneath the covers and lay as still as possible, the warmth of her body barely touching mine. Then she'd grab my hand and lace our fingers together. She always started the conversation, and I could never guess at what would come out of her mouth.

"I think I'm going to miss you when you're gone," she said, one night.

"You think?"

"Yeah, it'll just be a little bit though. I don't want to ruin my reputation."

I leaned over, kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I think it's too late for that."

She turned to her side so that we lay face to face. She moved in close. She always dabbed perfume on her neck before bed and the sweet smell drifted over to me on the sigh that always came with our first kiss of the night. "You're probably right," she said once she pulled back enough to speak in a soft whisper.

"I'm always right," I countered.

"When I let you be," she smiled. And I couldn't argue with that.

))-((

She stopped sleeping at the four month mark. She constantly pretended for my sake, but regardless of the time, when I woke from a fitful or drug induced sleep, I would always find her completely awake and ready to get me whatever I needed.

I didn't have to ask, I knew she was afraid I'd slip away while she wasn't watching. I understood that she believed her sheer will held enough power to keep me living on this borrowed time.

My body no longer had room for anything other than pain. It lanced through me at the bed's slightest movement. I refused to say anything because her body next to mine was a salve for my damaged soul, if not my diseased body. I feared her absence would be more unbearable than the physical pain of her presence. So I squeezed my eyes shut, and in the darkness of the room I tried to swallow every tear that threatened to fall.

"What's wrong?" she asked me one night.

"Nothing." My eyes were shut tight, the tears struggled to break free. My lie was obvious. Pain shot through my veins and rendered my voice weak, a shadow of itself.

She wiped her fingers against my cheek. "Why are you crying?"

I didn't answer her and we laid there at the crossroads of pain and comfort.

"Please tell me why you're crying." Her voice was desperate, it forced my eyes open.

"It hurts," I finally said.

"What does?"

"When the bed moves."

She said nothing, and in the quiet I saw her heart break. I watched as she carefully eased out of the bed and walked across the room to a black lounger. It sat by the bedroom window. She dragged it as close to my side of the bed as the medical equipment would allow. Then she grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and the pillow she'd been laying on moments before.

When she finally settled into her new bed, she turned to face me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered before she could speak.

She reached for my hand, but hesitated. Her worry was clear and raw. I hated myself for putting it there.

I reached out and brought her hand to my lips. "I'm sorry," I whispered against her skin.

"There was a time when hurting you was the highlight of my day," she paused and my eyes quickly found hers. They were shining in the barest of moonlight filtering through the window. "But that was then, and we don't have a lot of now left, so you have to promise to tell me if I hurt you because, believe me, the thought of doing that..." She couldn't finish her sentence. She didn't have to.

I wanted to hold her, but my body betrayed my heart months ago, so all I could do was what she asked.

"I promise."

))-((

Sometimes when the only energy I had wasn't even enough to keep my eyes open, I would spend the time thinking about the what-ifs. They plagued me. They warmed me. They tasted bittersweet in my mouth even though it had been months since I tasted anything at all.

I thought about what life would have been like if a miracle suddenly happened. What would happen without the cancer to hold us together? Would we hate each other again, the time when we didn't a distant memory of our better selves? Would we stay together and watch as our daughters grew into the magnificent women we knew they would be? Would we grow old together, arguing about nothing at every opportunity just because we could?

Each time I thought about it, I saw a different future, a future I wanted but wasn't promised. Each time I thought about it, I acutely missed the miracle that would be someone else's to have.

When my birthday came around and I was still hanging on, she put on her best dress, but decided against the party hat. She walked over to me with a piece of Carlotta's flan, a single candle sticking from its center.

"I want you to make a wish," she said.

I have made wishes for months, but the one I wanted most is the one I never asked for. If I didn't ask, then the possibility always existed for it to come true. It was what I had come to label my cancer logic. I doubted it would hold up in a court of law, but for the first time in a long time, there was no opposing counsel to argue against me, no judge to rule one way or the other. There was just me and my logic trying to hold on for a little while longer.

"Just tell me what you want," she said.

"I want," I paused, choking on the quantity of things I wanted, but couldn't have. I started again, "I want... I want you to tell me," I finished.

There were things that always remained unsaid between us. They were vestiges of who we used to be, secreted away into places meant to protect hearts that had been broken too many times.

"Please," I asked again. There was no sound to my voice, just the air as it passed between my lips.

She placed her hand on my cheek; her skin soft, warm, alive. "I think," she took a deep breath and paused. Tears brimmed at her eyes, but she didn't stop them. They cascaded down her cheeks, their trail a tactile journey of a poem neither of us knew how to write. "I think we would have loved each other best."

Her words washed over me. They penetrated my skin, and settled like grace in the center of my chest. "I think you're right," I said.

"I'm always right," she countered.

"When I let you be," I smiled. And she couldn't argue with that.

She dipped her finger into the flan and gently placed the tip of it on my tongue. Then she kissed me. And it was soft, and it was sweet, and it was the last thing I ever tasted.

It was my wish come true.

The End.


End file.
